


Broken Glass: Part Four – The Pieces

by motsureru



Series: Broken Glass [4]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Awkwardness, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Law Enforcement, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-22
Updated: 2007-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers through all of Season 1. This is a continuation after Season 1, Sylar/Mohinder-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Glass: Part Four – The Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _“I only did my job… the real hero here is Mr. Suresh- he stayed here all night long waiting for you to wake up. I don’t know many wives that would do that for their husbands, let alone boyfriends. You’re very lucky to have him.”_  

 

.4 The Pieces

 

            It takes a master to put back together broken glass. You have the borders, you have the shapes, and you think you know where they should go. The large slivers, the small slivers, the main parts, the subtle details… you think you know where to put the pieces when you first see them, when the whole picture is fresh in your memory. But slowly, it dawns on you. The broken edges. So finely damaged, so intricately crafted by disaster... -was that piece in backwards? How can you tell front from back? Did the glass break inwards, or outwards? Maybe when it all began, you never really knew. What your eyes see and what your mind understands are two completely different things; if the two do not work together, you will never get the pieces to be whole again at all.

            

            “That nurse was awful scary, don’t you think?” Sylar commented casually, leaning back against his hospital bed again and settling a hand over his belly to hold the gauze down at rest. He was no longer poking and analyzing the wound, as he was scolded for. He turned his head slowly over in the direction of the heart monitor and watched it blip for several moments. The sound was invasive and aggravating.

            “You seem to think this is some sort of joke!” Mohinder accused, looking between the closed door and Sylar incredulously. He seemed almost insulted by the idea that Sylar would not take his injury- or the situation- very seriously. “I assure you, it is nothing of the sort, Sylar. I am going to turn you in to the authorities.”

            That made Sylar’s dark eyes return to Mohinder, a subtle threat behind them.

            “And how are we doing today?” –came Dr. Howell’s voice as he entered the room, chart in hand and stethoscope about his neck. He smiled at the two of them pleasantly as he approached the bed.

            Sylar turned his attention from Mohinder to the doctor and gave a disarmingly innocent smile up at that man. “Just fine, doctor. Howell, was it? Mohinder was just telling me what a _great_ job you did taking care of me.” He seemed to sound serious at that last part, nodding his head while he said it, as if confirming that fact.

            Mohinder crossed his arms over his chest, his own face darkening and expression hollow.

            The doctor looked quite pleased at that complement and smiled wider. He set down the chart and moved over to Sylar’s side, putting the stethoscope to his ears. “I only did my job… the real hero here is Mr. Suresh: he stayed all night long waiting for you to wake up. I don’t know many wives that would do that for their husbands, let alone boyfriends. You’re very lucky to have him.” He slipped the stethoscope under Sylar’s shirt and pressed the cold metal over his heart, listening.

            Flinching away almost comically, Sylar gave a boyish, delighted smile. He turned his eyes over towards Mohinder with that beaming look still on his face. “I know. Isn’t he the _greatest?_ ” Clearly assumptions were going to be the death of Mohinder.

            There was something to that smile, something so warm and so deceptively natural about it that Mohinder felt a cruel pang deep inside from knowing its inner sarcasm. He didn’t scowl, he didn’t even glare. His expression was something softer than that, and he turned his back to the pair while the doctor checked Sylar’s vitals. A subtle regret nagged at Mohinder’s senses; Sylar felt the need to be Zane Taylor to both neutralize and captivate the feelings of others. Mohinder found it more painful to watch than he wanted to admit to even himself. He, too, had been captivated once. 

            “Do you think I’ll have to be in here very long, doctor?” Sylar asked, a tone of fear creeping into his voice at the seriousness of his injury. Those large, brown eyes watched the doctor’s movements everywhere they went. He didn’t even pay attention to the blood pressure device being fastened to his upper arm. 

            “It’s hard to say, Mr.-… Your name. I almost forgot that we need to know your name,” Doctor Howell said as he pumped air into the arm strap.

            _Yes, what is your name?_ Mohinder wondered, glancing furtively over his shoulder.

            Sylar stared up at the doctor, the most blissfully blank look on his face. “It’s--…” Those brown eyes slowly lowered and his thick brows furrowed in faint alarm. “…What is it…?” he asked the question almost of himself. His eyes moved to Mohinder and he smiled again. “Mohinder, you must know my name.”

            So that was the game? To drag Mohinder into this lie? “…I’m afraid I never caught it,” he said stiffly. There was a brief pause. “-At the bar. We never exchanged names,” the man added in, ensuring the safety of his own lie. He felt guilty immediately.

            Sylar seemed to pause at that, as if accessing some memory that seemed far off from this very moment. Convincing. “No… I suppose we didn’t.”

            The doctor frowned to himself. “Family? Address? Can you recall anything?”

            There was a soft shake of his head, and the patient managed to look quite disturbed by the thought. He grabbed onto the doctor’s hand with a sense of urgency. “No… nothing… I remember…” Sylar paused, taking a calming breath and looking down at the sheets. “I remember… taking a taxi to the bar… and sitting near the back… --and I remember what Mohinder was wearing.” He smiled suddenly, face alight with some inner gratification. Sylar turned his gaze back to Doctor Howell. “He was very handsome that night, you know. He dresses in these earthy tones that bring out eyes.” 

            Mohinder felt the back of his neck growing hot again. He clenched his jaw without realizing it.

            The doctor cleared his throat uncomfortably. He took his hand back and used it to raise the back of the bed’s mattress. “I-I’m sure.”

            “-And I remember talking with him for a long time… and buying him a drink or two… and then he-” the corner of Sylar’s lips suddenly quirked up in a half-grin at the man. “I guess you don’t need to know all those details, huh? I remember leaving the bar… and hearing footsteps behind me… but after that it’s all kind of hazy.” The man’s eyebrows knit again in concern. “Is that normal too, doctor? What if I never remember anything?”

            Taking up his chart and making a few notes, the doctor tried very hard to look as though he was not, in fact, troubled by thoughts of the sexual escapades of these two men. “It’s not unusual to have temporary memory loss after a traumatic experience… you may find these memories return in days, though it could even be weeks. Right now I’d like to run a brief test on you, though.” Seeming to regain his professional air, Doctor Howell bypassed Mohinder’s stubborn figure and moved to the end of the bed. He pulled back the covers from Sylar’s lower legs, which made the man appear nervous.

            “Wh-what are you going to do?” Sylar had a quaver in his voice, watching as the doctor pulled a small white tube from his pocket.

            “Can you please try to wiggle your toes for me?” Doctor Howell requested.

            Silence and stillness across all three parties.

            Sylar gasped and pointed a hand down in accusation. “My toes! My feet! They aren’t moving, doctor!” he exclaimed, looking from one foot to the other as if there would be some difference there.

            Mohinder’s body turned slowly, and he found his arms uncrossing unconsciously as he watched this scene unfold. His curiosity, maybe even his sense of compassion, threatened to show itself. Could Sylar really be…?

            “Try again for me?”

            Sylar closed his eyes tightly, squeezing them shut as he took in a deep breath through his nose. There was no movement. He opened his eyes. “Did it work? I tried! I thought about it but they- w-what’s that?” A slightly more frantic look passed between his feet and the tube Doctor Howell was uncapping.

            “It’s a sterile needle. I’m going to test your leg in several places for reflexive pain reactions. Just stay calm.” The doctor reached over and gave a quick prick into Sylar’s big toe on one side.

            There was no movement.

            Then, on the other.

            Mohinder looked to Sylar’s face for an answer, but even there- nothing. Sylar was watching the doctor’s movements transfixed, and his feet gave no response to the pain that was apparently being inflicted. The scientist breathed in slowly, taking a short step back. Sylar could be paralyzed for the rest of his life. An invalid, incapable of doing a great deal of everyday tasks on his own. He wouldn’t even be able to get out of that bed and walk out of this hospital. What did that say, then, for his ability to be a murderer?

            There had to be a reminder- Mohinder had to tell himself he couldn’t have sympathy for the Devil. Sylar may not have been able to walk, but he could still kill with his mind, given the chance. But now Sylar still had a chance to live, too, no matter how unsatisfactory that life may seem by comparison... But so what? Had Sylar given Mohinder’s father a chance to live? Chandra couldn’t take in the sunshine of a single more day, thanks to this man. He couldn’t even live an unsatisfactory life. Why _should_ Mohinder feel pity, now? Now that Sylar had simply lost some motor functions. Even that wasn’t doing the lives of the dead justice, was it?

            And yet… Mohinder had a hard time imagining Sylar as so inhuman, when here he had succumbed to the most human of susceptibilities: physical injury and suffering. Who could say he wasn’t a victim, even if he, on some level, deserved it? Mohinder found himself with an unsettling tension in his belly. 

            “Well…” Doctor Howell concluded with a tone of resignation, “I’m afraid we are looking at paralysis in the legs.”

            The man in the bed began to shake his head ‘no’ back and forth as he spoke, stammering over his words with a nervous disposition. “W-well that sort of thing can go away, can’t it? People go into therapy for it all the time. …If I try hard, I can-“

            “I’m afraid it’s not that easy when the spine is involved,” the doctor interrupted, lips pursed as he capped the needle. “Some spinal injuries have more serious nerve damage than others… some may not even be very serious, but if they hit the right spot… There’s simply no way to tell from a preliminary like this. We would have to take a closer look- maybe even consider surgery if that’s what it would take. I’m sorry.”

            Sylar stared blankly at the man, lips slightly parted as that sank in. He leaned back against the bed. “I… see.” Mohinder swore he could see truth to the deflated expression on the man’s face, the humbled look of despair that any man or woman might have had upon receiving that news so suddenly. It wasn’t just Zane Taylor, was it?

            “I- have you been taking off your bandage?” the doctor suddenly asked, voice reproachful as he caught sight of Sylar’s rumpled shirt and the trace of undone medical tape.

            Looking down at his belly, Sylar stared. “…it itched?”

            “Don’t touch it,” the man warned. “I’ll send someone in shortly to make sure it’s sterilized and re-bandaged properly.” Taking up his chart to jot down several more items, Doctor Howell glanced up and between the two of them. “Were there any other questions?”

            “Yes, Doctor Howell. How long until I can leave?” Sylar asked abruptly. There was a second’s hesitation, rethinking that statement, and then, “I sort of have this fear… of hospitals…”

            Frowning at that, the doctor made a ‘hmmmm’ noise as he thought. “If your wound shows very good progress in healing… maybe a few days? Normally we’d want to keep you longer, but you seem anxious to go, and there are things we can give you to ensure safe healing on your own. But we’ll still want to keep you a few days for observation to ensure the internal organs are mending well.”

            “Not like tomorrow? I can’t leave tomorrow?” Sylar asked- or was it Zane? He sounded nervous and insistent, like a child who couldn’t comprehend the waiting process. Like asking the question over and over again would somehow change the answer.

            Doctor Howell narrowed his eyes as if his own comprehension seemed obscured by those questions. “Are… you serious? You were stabbed!” The doctor shook his head in disbelief and dismissed Sylar’s comment as he headed for the door. “A nurse will be in shortly.”

            Mohinder took in a slow, deep breath as the man left, tired of being the ghost in the room. The ‘worried boyfriend’ who had little to say. He did, in fact, have a lot to say. The problem was that it never sounded any good after it left his brain and Mohinder was sure whatever he was thinking would be convoluted in the end by his inability to decide how he truly felt about the matter. He looked back at Sylar, moving to face him once again. There was only one thing he was sure of: “I… am sorry. About your legs.” Sylar may have been a monster, but Mohinder knew in the end that it was wrong to wish an ill fate on any person.

            “A few days?” Sylar repeated to himself, staring at his legs. “A _few days_ in this place?”

            Staring at the man almost aghast, Mohinder could not hold back his incredulous tone. “Did you have somewhere _better to be?_ You were _stabbed_ , man! You’re paralyzed!” Mohinder practically threw his hands up in the air to emphasize this point.

            “I know. And it’s really going to cripple my style. –No pun intended, I guess.” Sylar was searching around him, it seemed, perhaps wondering where his clothes had gone to, in light of the hideous hospital garb he had on. He lifted his right hand with the IV stuck inside and moved to pull it out.

            “Stop that!” Mohinder said suddenly, stepping forward and reaching for the left. He grasped Sylar’s wrist and held it back. It felt warm. “You can’t be serious! You’re going to try to leave in this condition and kill people?! Half the police in New York City are probably looking for you! You really do have a death wish!”

            Sylar brought his deep eyes to meet Mohinder’s but he didn’t pull his wrist away quite yet. “For someone who pulled the trigger, you really do seem to care a lot about whether I live or die right now,” he replied coolly, voice lowering as it always did when he became serious. When Sylar became that much closer to being the serial killer instead of the man.

            Mohinder found himself baffled instantly by the truth. He released Sylar’s wrist and leaned away, standing straight again. He swallowed nervously and curled his fingers back into his palm. “Well… some of us still care about human life.”

            “So I’m a human, then? Just a plain, ordinary human, sick and defective in a hospital bed. The object of everyone’s pity,” Sylar replied spitefully. An unguarded malice brewed beneath that tremulous tone.

            Mohinder’s heartbeat fumbled over itself. “You’re… anything but ordinary. But you’re still human. That means you still have hope.” Mohinder dared to say it. Dared to think it. Dared to believe it. He stared down at the man’s wrist, thinking of a time when Zane Taylor had grabbed his much the same way.

            “Hope.” Sylar spoke the word like a curse. 

            “Yes…” Mohinder said softly. “…If only you’d be willing to try.”

            The slow intake of breath from Sylar was penetrating. Nerve-wracking. Contemplative. “I want to make you a deal. Are you willing to listen?”


End file.
